"Well what's the difference between passé composé and imparfait?"
"Passé composé is a definite point in time in the past. Imperfect is a span of time in the past that you did something for. Like feelings or the weather."
"That's stupid."
I furrow my eyebrows and scowl at him. "It's a part of the French language."
"Well then French is stupid. Am I fluent yet?" he whines with a playful smirk. With an easy smile, I respond, "You're probably going to need about 20 years of tutoring before that ever happens."
"I'm all in, Clover," he says in a sultry tone with a wink. I clear my throat and look away, but his smile only grows wider.
"Don't call me that," I utter.
"What's that, Clover?"
"I said don't call me that!" I snap at him. His eyes grow wide, but I just continue asking him questions and helping him conjugate the verbs. Time passes quickly; this is effortless and even fun. French makes sense, unlike everything else.
"Shit, what time is it?"
"It's 10:00. Why? Do you have a curfew?"
If only he knew. "Do I have a curfew?" I mimic sarcastically. Of course I don't have a curfew. My mom isn't home enough to tell me when I should be. I bite my lip, not wanting to admit this, and manage, "I should get going though. I'm going to be dead tomorrow if I stay up too late."
"Okay," he agrees. Was that regret I saw in his eyes? "Let me walk you out."
I gather up my books and say goodbye to his mother before walking out to my car. She was really sweet, bringing us little macaroons while we were studying. Nothing like my mother. Puddles of water on the driveway reflect the light of the moon and a biting winter chill in the air makes me shiver.
I reach for the door, clicking it open and sliding into the seat. He leans into the open window, and I snap my head over to him, surprised at the closeness. "Thanks for doing this. Can we do it again tomorrow?" I nod at him. "Yeah, sure. My place at 7. Study imparfait again before then."
XXXXXXXXXXX
The doorbell rings at exactly 6:58. I've been cleaning all afternoon and evening – moving empty beer cans from the tables, floors, and everywhere else to the trash, discarding old takeout containers, scrubbing the counters free of wine stains and cigarette ashes, Febreezing all the furniture, vacuuming, dusting, and washing just about everything in this teeny, run-down house. It might even look nice when I'm done, especially compared to the mess it always is. I vaguely wonder where my mother is, but decide she's probably out in a bar or a club or screwing some guy she met on the street. I push away thoughts of her and answer the door.
He's wearing a fitted grey tshirt, black jeans, and a smile. I let him in, and his cologne wafts across my nose, a familiar scent.
"Bonjour, belle fille," he says. I roll my eyes at him.
"Salut, bette vache," I quip, and he narrows his eyes.
"I call you pretty and this is what I get?"
"Maybe you shouldn't be calling me pretty," I respond with a smirk.
"Maybe you are pretty," he chuckles.
I shove him away and smile sideways. "Just open the stupid textbook."
"Yeah, yeah. Okay, watch this. I memorized a whole bunch of those weird verbs."
"Irregular?"
"Yeah. Je serais, je ferais, je verrais, je pourrais, j'irais, j'aurais, je viendrais, je voudrais, j'enverrais, je devrais, il faudrait," he lists quickly.
"I'm impressed. You didn't even need me for that. Maybe you should start tutoring me," I joke, and he smiles brightly at me.
"No, you're too smart for me. It's really unfair."
"Stop it," I say, and we continue studying.
It's 9:17 when I hear a crash outside. "Damn raccoons," I curse under my breath. But raccoons don't laugh, and raccoons don't open up doors, and raccoons don't wear sparkly dresses with too-high heels. It's my mother. Shit. I jump up from my chair and race in the next room, to find her stumbling through the door on tipsy feet. She's cackling incessantly, her dyed blonde hair is a mess – sex hair – and the putrid smell of vodka pulses from her body in waves. Cato's up and standing just a few feet behind me, but I just wish he didn't have to see this. I don't want anybody to see this.
"Well, look what we got here; you finally brought a boy home, Clover? Oh, am I crashing your little party?" she asks in a fake whine. "Sorry to ruin the fun for you and your little boyfriend. And you even cleaned the place up for him. So cute."
"You're drunk," I hiss at her. "And he's not my boyfriend. I'm helping him with French."
"You mean with frenching," she guffaws. "You don't even know French. How can you teach him?"
"I've been taking French for seven years."
"You have not! You're a dirty fucking liar," she accuses, her drunken anger flashing across her makeup smeared face, but it quickly vanishes into a feigned expression of innocence. "I'm sorry I had to look like this to meet your friend," she coos in a childish voice. "What's your name?" she asks him in an attempt at being sexy, but it comes out hoarse and cracking. She's advanced to stand inches away from his face, staring at his features with a finger ghosting over his chest. He's uncomfortable, and can definitely smell the liquor on her breath, as he pushes her hand away from him and backs away. She doesn't just take her hand away, though; she slides it down the front of his shirt and lets it rest at her side.
"Hello, Mrs. Fuhrman," he says, clearing his throat. "It's nice to meet you." She smiles at him, taking in his muscle and good looks. I'm disgusted.
"Jeez, would you look at the time. You better get going, Cato," I say in an elevated tone, trying to get him out of this.
"Yes, of course, um, I'll just be … going, then," he says, quickly dashing away from my mother. He grabs his textbook from the table, and I walk behind him, pushing him ahead when I can hear her heels clacking on the ground towards us.
"Don't you walk away from me, young lady," she screeches, and I break into a run, grabbing his hand and pulling him out the door. "Hey, bitch!" she screams after me, but she's too drunk to care after that, and instead of chasing me, as usual, she just slams the door.
When we're standing by his car, I don't know what to say, so I just start with the obvious. "Look, I'm really sorry about her. I wasn't expecting her home, I put you in a really awkward situation, I'm sorry –"
"Clove, it's fine, really," he cuts me off. "What she does is out of your control." I sigh and look down at the ground, embarrassed by the awful show my mother was. "Are you okay?" he asks seriously.
"Fine," I answer quickly, trying to hide my shame.
"Clove, I'm sorry you have to deal with that. It sucks," he says plainly, but it sounds like the nicest thing I've ever heard.
"Well, that's life I guess," I answer. "Anyway, see you Monday." He looks longingly and sadly at me, starting up his car. He starts backing down the driveway when I walk to the front door and jiggle the knob before realizing it's locked and dead bolted. I linger at the door a little longer, hoping he leaves before he figures it out too, but when I turn around, he's still at the end of the driveway, watching me. I wave with a half-hearted smile, and he waves back out the window, pulls out into the street, and drives away.
When I go around to the back of the house, I discover that the other door is locked, too.
And all the windows.
She's sober enough to be clever, and drunk enough to be passed out on the couch. I can see her from the window.
A sinking feeling fills my body, remembering that winter night when the same thing happened. Shivering, frozen joints, chilled to the bone, nearly dead the next morning. The weatherman said it's going to get below freezing tonight.
I turn my body toward the house, my forehead pressed up against it. Thank God Cato left already. He can't know about this.
It's dark outside, and there aren't any lights on to help me see. The moon is up, though, so it gives me enough light to make my way around the house to my car. But of course, I locked it and my keys are inside. "Fuck," I whisper to myself.
Change of plans. I go to the woods in the backyard and find some sticks and dried brush for a fire. I dig a lighter out of my pocket, thanking my lucky stars I left it there after cleaning up the house. The eerie sound of an owl fills the forest around me, but I'm not scared. I've dealt with worse monsters. Namely, my mother.
I've established a small camp site for myself, with a fire area and hopefully enough brush and dried leaves to insulate my slumber. Crimson flame spews from the lighter when I strike it, and suddenly the brush and sticks are alive. I have gathered enough dead tree branches and kindling to keep the fire going for the night, hopefully, but I'm still just praying I make it through. The last time this happened was terrible.
"I hate to interrupt your little campout," a voice calls out from about 50 yards away, "but you're gonna freeze to death if you stay out here."
I gasp and jump to my feet. "Cato! What are you doing here? You left," I manage quickly.
He doesn't speak until he's within 10 yards of me. "Yeah, I know. And then I thought about it for a second and realized only a crazy woman would lock their daughter out of her house," he says with a smile. "Then I thought about that, and realized… your mother is crazy." He takes on a more serious tone when he finishes, moving closer still. "You need to do something about this, Clove."
"What's there to do about it, huh? It's not like the Peacekeepers are going to do anything about it. Who do you think her customers are?" I sputter, unsure of why I'm getting angry at Cato. "Besides, I'm doing just fine by myself."
"It's okay to ask for help once in awhile. Why didn't you tell me about this? I can help you," he soothes.
I sigh and look down at my feet. What do I have to lose? Why don't I just speak bluntly? "Because it's embarrassing," I whisper, afraid of my own words. He's stopped moving closer now, just a few feet away from me. "I don't need anybody's help. I didn't want anybody to know about this."
"Well, I already know now. So what's the harm in letting me help?" he asks, spreading his hands apart. I hesitate a moment, looking back at my fire, then back at him. And I decide to take his help. I stamp out the fire with my sneaker, coughing at the black smoke rising up into my face. He pulls his jacket off and places it over my shoulders.
"When people let other people help them, they get jackets, you know," he smiles slyly, and I shake my head with a grin.
"You've got to be kidding me."
"You know what else they get?"
"Not a clue."
"Hot chocolate, Clove. They get hot chocolate."
I smile up at him and wonder what I did right to deserve this.